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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964662">Now You See Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlestbird/pseuds/thelittlestbird'>thelittlestbird</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Musketeers (2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crossdressing, F/F, Rule 63, canon infidelity, f!Aramis, f!D'Artagnan, mention of canon pregnancy loss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:22:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,095</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964662</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlestbird/pseuds/thelittlestbird</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>For years, Aramis has depended on her Musketeer brothers’ help to hide the fact that she is the only woman among them. With the arrival of new recruit D’Artagnan, she may not be alone anymore – and a series of attacks on the palace presents them with an opportunity to serve the realm in a way that only they can do.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche/Aramis | René d'Herblay, d'Artagnan/Constance Bonacieux</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Rule 63 Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Now You See Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirty_diana/gifts">dirty_diana</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aramis dove behind the wall, one hand on her plumed hat and the other on her pistol. “That was a close one!” she gasped, staring at the chips of stone that littered the walkway from the bullets flying over her head.</p><p>“You want to see close?” Porthos was already scrambling back up to his feet, crouching to keep below the edge of the wall. “I’ll give ‘em close. I’m going down there.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Athos and D’Artagnan need backup. And you need time to reload.” Porthos popped his head up just high enough to see over the edge. “If they’ve got another target on the ground, they won’t have time to shoot at you. Anyway, there’s only six of them and four of us.” Porthos’s grin flashed white amid the gray dust of stone and gunpowder. “We’ve got them outnumbered.”</p><p>Aramis grinned back, and reached out to clasp Porthos’s hand. “Good luck, brother.”</p><p>“You too.” Porthos gripped Aramis’s hand in return, then let go, and vaulted over the edge. </p><p>So far, none of the other Musketeers had noticed that Porthos never called Aramis ‘brother.’ </p><p>Neither he nor Athos had since they found out that Aramis was, strictly speaking, a sister. She could respect that: ‘brother’ wasn’t the kind of name that she gave anyone lightly, either, and even if she thought that she herself would probably say it to help a fellow sister cover, she understood if Athos and Porthos couldn’t. They did call her ‘sister’ in private; and anyway, what really mattered was their respect for Aramis and her skills. That was more important than any title.</p><p>What would happen with D’Artagnan…that remained to be seen.</p><p>With a roar as loud as any of the gunshots, Porthos landed in the middle of the fight. “Come here and face me!” </p><p>Which, of course, they did: all six assassins charged towards Porthos.</p><p>That bought Aramis some time. She tucked her musket in a gap in the wall, took a deep breath, and focused.</p><p>Just as it always did, the world fell away. There was nothing but the musket, her hands, and the assassin on the other side of the courtyard. Even the sounds of her brothers disappeared, leaving only the silence inside Aramis’s mind as she focused and took aim.</p><p><i>Boom!</i> One of the assassins fell, and Aramis smiled. From afar, she saw D’Artagnan’s posture change as he saw an opening, then darted forward to draw one of the others off of Porthos. “Well done,” Aramis murmured. “That’s how you work together.”</p><p>By the time she had reloaded, Athos had downed one of the assassins and was finishing off a second, and she poked her head up just in time to see Porthos backing a third into a corner. Both seemed content to let D’Artagnan handle the one he’d taken on, and he was doing all right – but from the way the assassins were fighting, it didn’t look like the Musketeers were going to be able to take any of them alive. Another attack with no information, if all five were going to go down…</p><p>…wait. Where was the sixth?</p><p>“Found you,” came a harsh voice from behind Aramis.</p><p>The last assassin was right next to her, blades in both hands.</p><p>In a single smooth motion, Aramis dropped her musket and swooped up to her feet, pulling out her rapier on the way. “So you have.” Her rapier clanged against his dagger as she swatted it away and then dodged back from his sword, her boots catching traction on the stones. </p><p>In and out she danced, rapier darting out in quick precise motions as she blocked first one and then the other of the assassin’s weapons. It was all she could do to track both the sword and dagger – if she took her attention off of those two flying blades for a fraction of a second, even just to draw her own dagger or another pistol, it might be enough for the assassin to break past her guard. She had to get rid of one of those blades - </p><p>- there! She saw an opening: his left arm rose too high, and she struck, slicing deep enough to draw blood and force him to drop the dagger. Aramis flashed a grin of triumph and leaped forward to kick it away, out of the assassin’s reach.</p><p>A string of Spanish curses exploded from him. <i>From Spain, again. More from Olivares?</i> Aramis thought, in the second that she had to think of anything before she was dodging his next blow and lunging forward with one of her own. </p><p>She thrust hard and felt her blade sink into the assassin in the same instant that she saw his eyes go wide with shock.</p><p>As the assassin crumpled to the ground, Aramis folded herself down to her knees next to him. “Was it Olivares that sent you?” she asked in low, urgent Spanish. It was too late for him to answer, but she could see from the look in his fading eyes that she was correct. A moment later, he fell still forever.</p><p>Aramis never enjoyed taking a life; no person with any kind of conscience could. But her heart was still singing, even as she made the sign of the cross over him and stood up, because she knew that she was doing what she was born to do.</p><p>Grinning and breathless, Aramis scooped up her hat, planted it back on her head, and went off to join her brothers.</p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>“This is the third attack in ten days! Where are these people coming from?” the King demanded.</p><p>The vast audience chamber felt even more empty than usual. Bright sun streamed in through the window, lighting the King’s scarlet-and-gold brocade to an even more brilliant shine and outlining each raised and gilded flourish on the ceiling. </p><p>The Cardinal’s rippling black cloak seemed even darker by contrast, swallowing up the light. He had made sure to get there first – easy for him to do, Aramis thought, since he hadn’t had to clean up from a fight or come all the way from the garrison! – and therefore to take up the closest position to the two thrones. </p><p>The King kept looking to the Cardinal, as if he actually had the answers that they had all been trying to find for the last ten days. “If this is Duke Olivares’s doing, why is he striking at the Queen in this manner? How can he dare to threaten the Queen at all? And why are you not doing anything about it? How can you not take action to protect the Queen!”</p><p>Next to the King, the Queen sat perfectly still, her high gold collar glittering like a second sun where it rose up above an ivory gown studded with tiny pearls that were nearly as pale as the soft hands folded in her lap. The tight knot of those delicate fingers around each other was the only thing that betrayed her fear. Nobody else saw that; Aramis was certain of it. </p><p>Everyone else was talking about the Queen, but nobody else was looking at her.</p><p>“Your Majesty.” Aramis could see that Treville was trying very hard to be patient: it was the third time that he had answered those questions in ten days, too. “We thought that we had closed all of the hidden passages in and out of the palace. It seems that there are even more.” He was also trying very hard to conceal how much that lack of knowledge frustrated him. “We are working as hard as we can to locate the rest and seal them off.” </p><p>“Perhaps Your Majesties would consider augmenting your guard details?” the Cardinal interjected, smooth as silk. “The Red Guard would be honored to provide additional security.”</p><p>“My Musketeers were perfectly capable of protecting the King and Queen today!” Treville shot back. “Now that we know the pattern, we can be prepared to counter the next one.”</p><p>The Cardinal scoffed. “Should there even be a pattern, though? It would – “</p><p>“That pattern.” The room fell silent: even the Cardinal hushed when the Queen spoke up. “That is what concerns me: why the attacks keep happening the way they do.”</p><p>“They want you to feel powerless,” Aramis said quietly.</p><p>All eyes turned towards her. </p><p>Aramis drew herself up, glancing around the room from the Cardinal’s piercing gaze to Treville’s warning scowl – and then back to the Queen, to whom alone she spoke when she said, “Always choosing moments when they know that nobody else will be around. Always attacking from slightly above – not shooting from a far away perch, but being up close on higher ground.” </p><p>“Yes,” the Queen said. “That is it, exactly.” Her gaze grew distant, and her voice grew quieter. “That is what Olivares does. Exactly that, to all of the women at court. Only to the women. Never to the men. Never to anyone who could challenge him. It was his way of reminding them that he was more powerful.” She drew herself back to the here and now, and her eyes came to rest on Aramis. “The Musketeer is very perceptive.”</p><p>Aramis dared to smile as she dipped her head in a bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”</p><p>“Hmm,” the Cardinal mused. “Our working theory was that Olivares wanted to disrupt the palace’s security in order to undermine the treaty, and therefore undermine the Spanish Crown. But this…” His eyes glinted with admiration at Olivares’s strategy – far too much admiration for Aramis’s taste. “He is indeed doing that, it seems, but he is maneuvering it in such a way that the Queen herself is the one who casts doubt on the security – not simply because she is the main target of the attacks, but because he is specifically trying to make her feel powerless.”</p><p>Even the King was more subdued in the face of that realization. “What does that mean?” he asked more quietly. “What do we do now?”</p><p>“We try to find how they’re getting into the palace,” Treville declared. “That has not changed. We just have a better understanding of why it’s happening. Your Majesties, be assured that the Musketeers will preserve your safety.” He bowed, then spun and turned to go before the Cardinal could get in the last word, the rest of the Musketeers following behind. “Oh, and it seems that you’ve understood the Queen,” he muttered to Aramis. “I suppose that that’s one good thing to come of you spending all that time hopping in and out of women’s bedchambers. Well done.” Somehow he managed to make the praise sound like a reprimand at the same time. “Now get back to the garrison, all of you, and start figuring out how to solve this problem.”</p><p>Athos arched his eyebrows wordlessly at Aramis, then turned to follow Treville down the stairs, D’Artagnan close on his heels. That left Porthos to actually ask the question: “You ever going to tell him how it is that you know so well what women are thinking?” </p><p>Aramis answered for the hundredth time, “Not if I can help it.” A glimpse of white, soft and pearlescent in the sun, caught her eye, and her heart skipped a beat. “Just a minute. There’s something I need to do. I’ll catch up with you back at the garrison.” Aramis hovered there for a moment, waiting until the others had disappeared down the staircase, then turned back and darted back around the corner where she had seen that bit of light.</p><p>And there was the Queen, as pale and radiant as if she were one of the pearls on her own gown. Her hair shimmered in the light, and she barely seemed to touch the ground as she glided towards Aramis.</p><p>“Your Majesty.” Aramis hardly dared to breathe. What if she did and this all vanished, like a reflection on a soap bubble or ice shattering in the sun. “I hardly dared to hope that I would see you here.”</p><p>Anne smiled, sending Aramis’s heart into an even quicker pounding beat. “My Musketeer,” Anne murmured. “Sometimes I think that you are the only one who ever truly sees me at all.”</p><p>“Then everyone else in the world is the poorer for it.” Aramis took a step closer. “And I am even luckier than I had thought, if I am the only one graced with this vision.”</p><p>“You flatter me.” </p><p>“I speak the truth.</p><p>“And so do I.” A tiny crack began to shiver its way through Anne’s courtly elegance, letting a glimpse of deeper emotion show through. “Of all of those people in that room, you were the only one who saw what I feared.”</p><p>“I was the only one who understood.” It hurt Aramis to see that fear again. She wanted to hold Anne tight, wrapping her up until the Queen could feel safe in her own home with her own family, until she could smile again. But she could only stand on the other side of the corridor, looking helplessly into Anne’s sorrowful blue eyes. </p><p>“And that is why I am glad you are there for me. You have seen it, have you not? All of those chambers filled with men, not even considering that there might be any kind of person in the world besides men.”</p><p>“I will always be there for you.” Aramis’s voice rang out low and sincere. “I swear.”</p><p>Anne took a step closer, and then another. “Do you still wear it?”</p><p>Aramis didn’t need to ask what she meant. “Next to my heart,” she replied at once. She reached inside the collar of her shirt and caught the fine gold chain on her finger, feeling the filigree edges of the crucifix catch on her binding cloth on the way out. She held it out for Anne to see – although of course Anne knew exactly what it looked like, for she had given it to her. A golden crucifix, studded with sapphires, that the Queen had once worn next to her own heart.</p><p>Anne smiled, soft and true, and some of the glow of her smile lit Aramis’s eyes too. “My bravest Musketeer.” Anne reached out to skim her fingers across the back of Aramis’s free hand, pale and smooth against the Musketeer’s leather glove. “Not only do you face danger from sword and bullet; you have risked discovery and disgrace for years – all so that you could have the honor of protecting the realm.”</p><p>Aramis turned her hand to close around Anne’s, as light and gentle as if she were holding a glass figurine. “I took an oath to keep France safe. To keep you safe. That matters more than my own safety, and I will never forsake it.”</p><p>“I know,” Anne said simply. </p><p>Somehow, that shook Aramis more than anything else. Nobody else had ever had such faith in her; not even her Musketeer brothers. They admired her courage, respected her skill; but a part of them could not see past the lightheartedness and flirting. But Anne – she took for granted that Aramis would keep her word. She wondered if this was how Anne felt, when she said that Aramis was the only person who ever truly saw her. </p><p>Anne’s eyes turned sad for a moment as she looked up at Aramis. “I know that you will protect me, and keep your oath. I only wish that you did not have to be in any danger to do it.” She lifted her other hand to brush across the crucifix. “I pray every day for your safety.”  Her fingers slipped through Aramis’s to twine together as she whispered, “Renée.”</p><p>“Your Majesty.” Aramis did not dare to call her anything else out loud, not even as her heart leaped to hear Anne speak her name. “Thank you.”</p><p>“You should go. Before they notice that you are gone.”</p><p>It was a relief that Anne had said it first: Aramis would never have been able to break away if it were left up to her. She had to nod, though. “You’re right.” She unlaced her fingers from Anne’s, feeling the tiny chill left behind after the warmth of Anne’s touch was gone. “Until I return, Your Majesty.” She stepped back from the Queen and into a bow, sweeping off her hat in the same smooth motion, and then straightening up to meet Anne’s eyes one last time as she promised, “I will always return to you.”</p><p>---</p><p>Aramis still felt the ghost of Anne’s hand on hers the next day, even as she lounged in the bright sun of the garrison practice yard. The familiar sounds of her brothers’ voices wove through with the equally familiar rhythm of their blades clashing against each other.</p><p>She had just finished sparring with D’Artagnan – she could always use more practice in countering that two-weapon style, as she’d been so unpleasantly reminded during the previous day’s attack – and Athos was working with him now while Aramis rested, elbows propped up on a table and boots kicked up on the next bench as she watched. Her mind was still in motion, though, half on Anne and half on the attack. Were they right, that the assassins were trying to frighten rather than kill? Should they even be calling them assassins, then? How could they fight back against someone who had such a nebulous goal? </p><p>And how could Aramis possibly ease that look of terrible fear from Anne’s eyes?</p><p>The familiar bulk of Porthos cast a shadow across Aramis as he moved to sprawl down next to her. “Is he beating Athos yet?”</p><p>“Not yet.” Aramis tipped her hat back so that she could look over at him. “But give it another few weeks, and he might. Fighting off multiple people at once – that wasn’t a fluke. He’s <i>good</i>.”</p><p>“He is, isn’t he?” Porthos shook his head in admiration. “Who’d’ve thought a country boy could fight like that?” They watched D’Artagnan dodge nimbly around another one of Athos’s cool, precise thrusts, and saw Athos’s sandy-brown beard curve in a brief smile of approval. “Where’d he learn?”</p><p>“He says his father taught him,” Aramis answered, eyes drifting back to D’Artagnan. Something about the new recruit’s stance tugged at Aramis’s mind, and she sat up a little straighter to get a better look.</p><p>“Ha! Well, if that’s how they fight in Gascony, I guess we know why those greedy tax collectors keep getting chased away.”</p><p>“Those greedy tax collectors work for the King that we’re supposed to protect,” Aramis pointed out. Her voice was a little absent, though – her focus was on D’Artagnan. </p><p>Was it just that he’d been trained enough by Athos that his movements were starting to look familiar? No, that wasn’t it; D’Artagnan’s nimble backwards skips weren’t like Athos’s style at all. Neither was the way he dropped down to evade a low swing rather than dodging to the side, or the way he carried his weight lower, or the wider swing of his arm -  </p><p>Oh. <i>Oh. </i></p><p>It reminded Aramis of <i>herself.</i><br/>
--</p><p>Charlotte D’Artagnan dragged herself up the stairs to her little rented room at the end of another long day of training, just as exhausted and elated as she always was. </p><p><i>Don’t get cocky</i>, Athos had warned her at the end of their sparring session, following praise with caution as he so often did. It hardly mattered to D’Artagnan, though. She was <i>with </i> the Musketeers! Being one of them was just a few short steps away; she knew it! </p><p>And so far, nobody had even come close to discovering that she was a woman. She had had to get very good at evading and avoiding – and, all right, outright <i>lying</i>, which she didn’t exactly like doing. But it was all in service of her mission, she told herself. There had been plenty of times when she and the Musketeers had to play roles, or pretend to events that hadn’t happened, so that their enemies would believe what they needed them to believe, and then the Musketeers could defeat them and uphold the safety of the King and Queen and France. You couldn’t always face your enemies in open battle; sometimes subterfuge was necessary. That’s what she was doing now: wearing a different face and a different name.</p><p>Charlotte was the person who had held her father in her arms as he died; Charlotte was the one who had wept over him. D’Artagnan was the one who charged into the Musketeer garrison to avenge him. Both were still <i>her</i>, but being D’Artagnan, being called by the single name that she shared with her father – it made her feel closer to him, and more like the person who could avenge him. </p><p>She climbed to the last landing, and paused in the hallway for a moment. She knew the exact spot on the stairs where she would be able to see into the kitchen – and in the kitchen, she knew she would see Constance. </p><p>Constance Bonacieux, her landlady. Her <i>married</i> landlady.</p><p>Who had helped the Musketeers. Whom she was training with the sword, whom she’d stayed up late talking to a dozen times. </p><p>Who was the only person in Paris who knew that she was a woman. </p><p>And who had kissed her, once, and even though neither of them had never mentioned it again, D’Artagnan had never ever been able to stop thinking about it.</p><p>D’Artagnan stood there leaning against the wall, watching the way the late-afternoon sun streamed in through the window to set Constance’s dark hair aglow against her creamy skin, and she felt her weariness fading away. She could never be too tired to talk to Constance.</p><p>“Good evening, Madame Bonacieux,” D’Artagnan said from the doorway – proper and courteous, in case her husband was home. </p><p>She could tell from the look on Constance’s face – and from the “Good evening, Monsieur D’Artagnan” in return – that he was. She met Constance’s eyes with sympathetic frustration. “Dinner will be ready soon,” Constance continued, in that same neutral voice, pitched to carry so that M. Bonacieux could hear. </p><p>“I’ll just get ready, then.” D’Artagnan was trying to match that neutrality, but it sounded false and forced. Or maybe that’s just because Constance was moving towards her, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything else.</p><p>Constance leaned in, close enough that D’Artagnan could smell the grassy scent of the herbs that she’d been chopping and feel her soft breath on her ear. “Can we train tonight?”</p><p>“Yes!” D’Artagnan breathed fervently. “I didn’t get to do much target practice today at the garrison, so I was hoping we could do some shooting anyway.”</p><p>Constance’s smile spread slow and warm. “Good,” she whispered.  Then she stepped back, and said in a louder voice, “It will be about fifteen more minutes before dinner.” Her grin was still the same though, and her eyes still held D’Artagnan’s with that secret smile that she knew was just for her.</p><p>--</p><p>Aramis was waiting for D’Artagnan when she came into the armory.</p><p>Of all of them, Aramis was the one that she had spoken to the least. D’Artagnan had thought that because he was always laughing, Aramis would be easy to get to know, but it was the opposite: his light quips came so close together that there was no room to see beneath their surface. Not to mention that Aramis was rumored to be very popular with women, and D’Artagnan wasn’t sure if that would mean that he would be more or less likely to guess her secret.</p><p>She had only seen beyond Aramis’s lightness a very few times. Sometimes when he was talking about the friends he had lost in battle, his snapping dark eyes lost their spark and shadowed over. And then there had been that moment in the audience chamber when he spoke to the Queen about feeling powerless. There had been something different about his voice in that moment. It felt to D’Artagnan as if she were standing at the edge of a dark lake whose bottom she couldn’t see, and she had just tossed a pebble in to see how far down it went. She knew there was something there in the depths, but no idea what it was.</p><p>So when she saw him there in the side corridor near the garrison’s armory, lounging against the wall with his plumed hat tilted slightly over his face, she wasn’t at all sure what to expect.</p><p>“Good morning?” D’Artagnan offered a little warily, stepping over Aramis’s artfully casual outstretched legs to reach the practice swords.</p><p>“If you’re going to keep doing this,” Aramis said in a low voice, “you need to be careful.”</p><p>D’Artagnan drew back, wariness sharpening towards alarm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>Aramis held up a gloved hand, saying soothingly, “Easy, easy. I’m not threatening you. I’m helping you.” Sharp dark eyes flicked up and down from under the brim of Aramis’s hat. “You’re doing very well so far, but there are a few things that you need to watch out for.”</p><p>“All right.” D’Artagnan wasn’t letting her guard down yet, and she wasn’t taking her eyes off of Aramis. “I know I still need to learn a few things before I can be a Musketeer. Why are you lurking in dark corners to tell me this instead of sparring in the practice yard?” </p><p>“That’s not what I mean. What I mean is – “ Aramis cut off, shook his head, and started again. “Look, the hair is good. You cut it yourself, probably? It feels strange to have it short at first, so keeping it a little long would help. Not living in the garrison makes things easier for you, too, I would imagine – “</p><p>Heart pounding in her throat, D’Artagnan sprang forward, pinning Aramis’s shoulders against the wall. “What are you saying?”</p><p>“What I’m saying is,” Aramis replied through a grimace, “that I’m helping you because <i>I’m doing the same thing that you are.</i>” </p><p>Aramis’s face tilted up, angling towards the dim light to let D’Artagnan see more clearly: that smooth chin wasn’t just the fastidiousness of someone who made sure that he was always freshly shaven. </p><p>Aramis saw D’Artagnan’s eyes widen, and knew that she understood. “I want to help you,” Aramis said again, more gently now. “You’re doing something incredibly brave. I know what a risk this is for you. And…I wish there had been someone to help me at the beginning.” </p><p>“Then why didn’t you just <i>say so</i>!” D’Artagnan gave Aramis one more shove before retreating with a glare. “Don’t go sneaking around in corridors and acting like you know all my secrets! If you really are doing the same thing I am, then you should know how <i>completely terrifying</i> that was!”</p><p>Aramis winced, rubbing her shoulder as she pushed off the wall. “I’m sorry.” All of the lightness was gone from her voice, leaving behind quiet sincerity. “You’re right. I do remember how it felt to be where you are. I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”</p><p>“Oh.” D’Artagnan wasn’t expecting so quick an apology. “Well. Thank you.” She was still glaring, though, arms crossed high and tight across her chest in a posture that Aramis recognized all too well. “So. What now?”</p><p>“Now, I help you,” Aramis repeated – but this time added, “If you want.”</p><p>“What if I say no?” D’Artagnan fired back.</p><p>Aramis held out her gloved hands in a conciliatory shrug. “Then I walk away. And so do you, and we don’t talk of this again, until and unless you choose to. We see each other on the practice field and we work together on whatever assignments Treville gives us, just as before. And I will <i>never tell another soul.</i>” She was entirely serious now, with no hint of laughter in the dark gaze that she lifted to meet D’Artagnan’s. “I swear to you, I will not. I can only hope that you would do the same for me.”</p><p>D’Artagnan stayed silent for a long time, huddled back against the wall behind the barrier of her crossed arms. Finally, she said, “All right.” Her words were quieter than before, and lighter: for this moment, at least, she didn’t have to try to speak in a deep voice. “Yes, I’d like your help. Yes, I promise I won’t tell anyone about you, either.” She swallowed hard, and finished almost in a whisper. “I’m glad that there’s someone else.”</p><p>“So am I,” Aramis replied softly – and then offered, “My name is Renée. I don’t mind being called Aramis, though.”</p><p>A ghost of a smile rose up to D’Artagnan’s face. “My name is Charlotte. But…please keep calling me D’Artagnan? That’s my real family name.”</p><p>Aramis nodded. “I will,” she promised, with just as much solemnity as she had sworn the oath to keep the other woman’s secret. “If you need help, D’Artagnan, you can always come to me.” Her smile finally returned as well. “You may not be a Musketeer yet, but when you are, we’ll be sisters.”</p><p>--</p><p>There was another attack the next morning: the same pattern. The assassins lurked on balconies, shadowing the Queen just closely enough so that she knew something was wrong, but not closely enough for her to see them. Fortunately, the Musketeers saw them first – but not before the attackers had made it into the palace itself.</p><p>Now, back in the audience chamber, the mood was even more tense: brittle, like glass with a crack in it that would shatter if it were hit at just the wrong angle. Aramis thought she could see tears in Anne’s eyes, and she would do anything in the world to wipe them away. <i>We should have stopped them…</i></p><p>“This is intolerable!” the King shouted. “Something must be done!”</p><p>“Everything <i>is</i> being done,” Treville sighed for the thousandth time.</p><p>And for the thousandth time, the King retorted, “Then how are they still getting in?”</p><p>“Your Majesty, might I make a suggestion?” the Cardinal asked in that light tone that made every Musketeer tense. “Since the Musketeers were the ones who found the secret tunnels the last time, perhaps they should undertake another search? It might be better suited to their abilities.”</p><p>Out of the corner of her eye, Aramis saw Treville bristle at that last bit – but it was too late to do anything else; the King was already on his feet. “Yes!” he declared. “You shall search the tunnels again.”</p><p>In any other room, D’Artagnan’s indignant huff would have faded into the background. Not in the echoing audience chamber.</p><p>D’Artagnan’s gulp was just as loud.</p><p>“Ah. The new recruit.” The Cardinal stalked closer to D’Artagnan, eyes narrowing. “Captain Treville, you need to do a better job of training your people.”</p><p>Aramis saw D’Artagnan tense more and more with every one of the Cardinal’s steps, her narrow shoulders arching back away from him. Last week, she would have thought that D’Artagnan was just wary of the Cardinal, and would not have faulted her for it one bit. Now, though, she knew exactly why D’Artagnan did not want the Cardinal – or anyone else – getting too close a look at her.</p><p>“We would be happy to search,” Aramis jumped in, her voice just a little too loud. All eyes turned to her – exactly as she’d hoped. She flickered a glance over at D’Artagnan – good, she looked relieved – and then turned on her most brilliant smile for the Cardinal. “If it means keeping the Queen safe, then of course we will. That is always our highest priority, no matter what else we are doing.”</p><p>The Cardinal’s eyebrows arched up. “Really. No matter what else?” </p><p>Well, it was absolutely true for her: the Queen was Aramis’s highest priority, always. But that was yet another thing that the Cardinal could never ever know. “No matter what other tasks we undertake for this mission,” Aramis began, trying to spin yet another hasty net of words to cover what was really going on.</p><p>“Enough.” The Cardinal spun away, mercifully turning his back on Aramis. “You have your orders. Now go.”</p><p>“This can’t keep happening,” Porthos grumbled on the way out. “We have to come up with a better plan.”</p><p>“Coming up with a <i>better</i> plan would imply that we already had a plan for it to be better than,” Aramis tossed back. “We have nothing.”</p><p>“We have nothing,” Treville agreed, “except two Musketeers – no, make that one Musketeer and one <i>cadet</i> – who cannot keep their bloody mouths shut! Do not make this worse than it already is! Tomorrow you’re doing that search. And maybe if you find something, I’ll actually let some of you out on the battlefield again.”</p><p>--</p><p>That night, D’Artagnan could hear Constance crying again.</p><p>Constance and her husband had had yet another argument at the evening meal, their voices rising louder while D’Artagnan wavered between wanting to sink into the floor and to slam Bonacieux against the wall the way she’d done to Aramis the day before. Except with him, she wouldn’t stop. </p><p>Now, hours later, when Constance thought that there wasn’t anyone else awake, she had taken refuge in the front room far away from Bonacieux to shed the tears that she wouldn’t let her husband see.</p><p>D’Artagnan rolled over and buried her head under the pillow, desperately trying to drown out the sound of Constance’s misery. She couldn’t, of course. There was no way that she could not notice what Constance was doing. She’d be drawn to her like a magnet even if she were on the other side of the world.</p><p>Not to mention that she almost felt like crying herself tonight. Not only was she as frustrated by the repeated attacks as everyone else, the way the Cardinal had looked right through her had been terrifying. If Aramis hadn’t spoken up to distract him when she did, D’Artagnan was sure that the Cardinal would have seen something different about her. And then afterwards with Treville – D’Artagnan knew she was lucky not to have been thrown out.</p><p>After a few more minutes, she couldn’t bear it any longer. She padded barefoot out into the front room where Constance sat in a huddled little lump, feet tucked up under her in her chair, her face buried in her hands.</p><p>“Are you all right?” D’Artagnan asked.</p><p>Constance lifted her head just enough to see D’Artagnan there. “Of course I’m not all right!” she snapped. She regretted the outburst as soon as she’d said it, though. “I’m sorry,” she snuffled, head slumping down again. “You’re just trying to be kind, and I shouldn’t be horrible to you. I have too rough a temper…” </p><p>It was the same kind of apology she’d made to her husband a few hours before, D’Artagnan realized: blaming herself for someone else’s misdeed, turning her guilt inward instead of outward where it belonged. D’Artagnan couldn’t bear it. “No!” she protested. She rushed over to Constance’s chair to kneel beside her, so that she could whisper and still be heard. “No, don’t apologize. It was a foolish thing to say, and I don’t mind if you’re angry at me for it.”</p><p>“It’s not you I’m angry with,” Constance muttered.</p><p>“That’s all right, too.” D’Artagnan reached out hesitantly, putting her hand on Constance’s arm. “You should be angry.”</p><p>Constance shook her head, pushing back at the tear-wet hair that clung around her cheeks. “I shouldn’t. I should submit and be obedient,” she recited.</p><p>“<i>No, you shouldn’t</i>,” D’Artagnan fired back, low and fervent. “They don’t allow us to be angry, even when we have plenty of reasons to be, but we still are, and we still should be.”</p><p>“Easy for you to say.” There was envy under Constance’s bitter words, mingled with admiration as she lifted her eyes to D’Artagnan. “<i>You’re</i> going to be a Musketeer. You’re defying the world. I’m a cloth merchant’s wife, and I’m never going to be anything but that.”</p><p>“No!” D’Artagnan protested. “I mean, yes, you are a cloth merchant’s wife,” she had to concede, trying to push down the twinge of unhappiness at being reminded yet again that Constance was married. “But you’re not just <i>someone’s wife</i>. You’re...yourself.  You’re smart and funny and kind and brave.”</p><p>“This is my life. There’s nothing I can do.” </p><p>That falling tone reminded D’Artagnan of the faint helpless note in the Queen’s voice. <i>They want me to feel powerless</i>, she had said. “There is something you can do,” D’Artagnan said suddenly. “Do you want to go spar?”</p><p>Constance’s head popped up. “Do I <i>what</i>?” She was so surprised that she almost stopped crying. “Right now, you mean? In the middle of the night?”</p><p>“Right now.” For the first time all day, D’Artagnan felt like smiling. “In the middle of the night.” She reached out a hand to pull Constance up. “Go get dressed. I’ll get the swords.”</p><p>They stifled their laughter as they made their way down the narrow stairs, each with a sword in one hand and their other arms linked through each other. “I still can’t believe we’re doing this!” Constance whispered. She huddled closer to D’Artagnan, as if that could keep them both from being noticed. </p><p>“Shhh!” D’Artagnan whispered back, although she couldn’t restrain her grin. “Wait till we get there.”</p><p>They threaded through the streets of Paris, which were never entirely deserted, not even in the darkest hours of the night. The nearly-full moon lit their way, turning everything a pale blue-gray and edging the sharp angles of every peaked rooftop and tight-closed shutter and overhanging balcony. Every line seemed more precise, even as the colors seemed muted – except for Constance. Somehow, she was vivid and soft even in the moonlight-gray: the deep red shawl pulled tight around the curves of her shoulder and waist; the round curls that slipped down to fall around her gently arched neck; the luminous eyes that crinkled as she glanced over her shoulder at D’Artagnan.</p><p>Soon, the streets opened up to the field where they had been practicing for the last few weeks. Constance practically ran for the last bit, and by the time D’Artagnan reached the field, Constance was already in her stance, sword up and smile wide. “Let’s go.”</p><p>Their sword practices felt almost like dancing: the way each of them watched the other, the way their bodies moved to the same rhythm. The way they pushed harder and harder as the fight went on, as if some unheard music were speeding up. With every passing minute, Constance’s motions grew more sure and her confidence more bright; and D’Artagnan felt her own troubles melting away as well.</p><p>At the end, they both dropped down to the grass, breathless and grinning. “How do you feel?” D’Artagnan asked.</p><p>“Better.”</p><p>“More powerful?”</p><p>“Yes.” Constance looked up at her with eyes that shone from the moonlight now rather than tears. “How did you know?”</p><p>“Something my father taught me.” It felt strange to say that. She’d hardly spoken a word about her father since his death. She’d said plenty about his death, of course, especially in the first few agonized blurry days when she could think of nothing but avenging him; but hardly anything about <i>him</i>. But she wanted to tell Constance; she wanted to give her that part of herself that she hadn’t given to anyone yet, not even Athos. “He said that whenever I was feeling powerless, or defenseless, I should go practice with the sword, and then it would remind me that I did have power. Even if I had to keep it a secret from everyone else, <i>I</i> would know what I could do, and that would help.”</p><p>“It does help.” Constance’s smile lifted up, and she reached out to put her arms around D’Artagnan. “Thank you.”</p><p>The touch made D’Artagnan’s breath catch. Every nerve was already alive with the exhilaration of sparring, and to add the soft slide of Constance’s touch was nearly too much. And yet, it was the easiest thing in the world to bend the last bit and touch her lips to Constance’s.</p><p>Constance’s mouth curved into a smile and pressed into the kiss, all in the same swift joyful motion as her sword clattered to the ground – she needed both hands to pull D’Artagnan tightly to her. Far away in the back of D’Artagnan’s mind, her father and Athos and Captain Treville were all shouting about the proper treatment of a blade, but here and now, Constance was in her arms, and D’Artagnan’s own sword fell away so that she could bury her hands in Constance’s hair.</p><p>“Oh, D’Artagnan,” Constance whispered, gazing up at her with those huge brown eyes so full of hope and sorrow. “What are we going to do? I’m married. I swore before God to be true to my husband.”</p><p>“I know,” D’Artagnan whispered back. And then, because there was nothing else to say, “Come on. Let’s get you home. We can think about the rest in the morning.”</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p>During the next morning’s practice, D’Artagnan lost every single bout. When she wasn’t yawning, she was lost in the memories of Constance’s hair in the moonlight. It was almost a relief when Treville dispatched them all to search the tunnels under the palace – even more so when Aramis offered casually, “D’Artagnan, why don’t you come with me?” </p><p>“I have a lot of questions,” D’Artagnan began, as soon as they were deep enough in the tunnels that she knew nobody else could possibly hear them.</p><p>Aramis’s smile flashed bright in the darkness. “I thought you might, once you’d had a chance to think about it.” She swept her torch around to cast its flickering light into corners, and far down the stone-lined corridor. “And we might as well do something useful here,” she muttered. “Wherever those tunnels are leading in, it’s got to be somewhere we haven’t even thought of, not somewhere we missed the last time.” She glanced over her shoulder at D’Artagnan, adding pointedly, “Also, you’re welcome.”</p><p>D’Artagnan looked down. “Yes,” she mumbled. “That too. Thank you.” </p><p>“It’s all right. Just don’t do it again. Remember, most of this is about <i>not</i> being noticed. Or, at least, only being noticed for what you want to be noticed for.”</p><p>“That’s exactly it,” D’Artagnan hurried to keep up with Aramis’s steps. “<i>How</i> do I keep people from noticing? I’ve only been here for a few months, and you’ve been here for <i>years</i>! How did you do it?”</p><p>“Have good friends on your side,” Aramis said instantly. “I <i>will</i> help you when I can. But that’s the most important thing about being a Musketeer whether you’re a woman or not. Your friends keep you safe, and you need people around you that you can trust. I don’t know what I would have done without Porthos and Athos.” The usual light flippant tone of her voice softened over that, turning more serious and sincere. </p><p>“So Athos and Porthos know about you,” D’Artagnan murmured. “Did you tell them?”</p><p>“In a manner of speaking, yes. You see, I was wounded at the siege of Montauban.” Aramis paused in her quick stride to reach up to trace her finger down her side, so high up on her ribs that D’Artagnan instinctively winced as she put the pieces together. “Exactly,” Aramis said ruefully, as she started up again. “Porthos pulled me off the field and wanted to take me to the medic. I refused; he persisted, and…well, you’ve seen what he’s like. He’s at least a thousand times more stubborn when he’s trying to help a friend in trouble.” </p><p>She couldn’t help smiling at the memory: even though it was bound up with all of the pain and fear that she had felt in that moment, it was mostly about realizing the strength of Porthos’s friendship. </p><p>“So I had to tell him. And after he finished being surprised, he helped me get somewhere private and helped me patch myself up, and spent the rest of the siege keeping everyone else away from me. And once he knew, I had to tell Athos as well. They both knew that I was a good Musketeer, and that mattered more to them than anything else, and they’ve helped me keep the secret ever since. They haven’t told a single other soul – not even Treville. They swore an oath that they would keep my secret until and unless I chose to reveal it. I swear that will do the same for you. But ordinarily it takes time to build that trust, especially for a secret as big as this one.” </p><p>She shook her head to clear away that thought and swept the torch around another corner to shed light on a new section of corridor. “After that, I started training to be a medic myself. As it happened,” she said lightly, “I had a very skilled hand for needlework.”  D’Artagnan snorted. “Exactly,” Aramis continued, with another quicksilver grin. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to get people to see what you want them to see. A little extra lace on my collar, scalloped edges on my jacket, big plumes on my hat – that tells everyone that I take care in my appearance. It also helps that I just like it.” That grin showed bright again in the torchlight, and she tugged at the ruffled edge of a cuff. “But it means that most people don’t wonder about my face being so smooth; they think I must have just shaved, because I would take care with that, too. Not having a moustache or beard makes me a little unfashionable,” she conceded regretfully, “but not unique. The king’s clean-shaven, too, after all.”</p><p>“So what should I do?”</p><p>“That all depends on what kind of person you want them to see. This one worked for me.” Aramis flourished her free hand down at her clothing. “Your country-boy image works for you, if you want to keep it. But you don’t have to. You and I already know that we can change the way people see us.” She swept her torch around, lighting another section of blank stone walls and floors. “This search is really going to be pointless, isn’t it?” she sighed.</p><p>“I suppose keeping the King happy is the point?” D’Artagnan offered, without much conviction.</p><p>“That is indeed one of the things that we are supposed to do.” Aramis hoped that her voice just sounded light and flippant, and that none of the irony she felt at that statement came through.</p><p>“Can I ask…” D’Artagnan’s voice trailed off.</p><p>Something in her tone made Aramis turn around. “What is it?” she asked, a little more gently.</p><p>“You like – er – everyone says that you – “ D’Artagnan stammered for a moment, then finally broke through, “There are rumors all over the garrison that you like women. That you’re – that you’re always hopping in and out of women’s beds. Is that true?”</p><p>Oh. She was going to ask about <i>that</i>. “Or is it just part of the appearance, you mean,” Aramis began carefully. “Start rumors about one thing so that people don’t look too closely at the others?” D’Artagnan nodded. Aramis stopped walking for a moment, letting the flickering torchlight shine more brightly on D’Artagnan’s face so that she could see the look in the other woman’s eyes. </p><p>What she saw there made her want to tell the truth.  “It’s not part of the appearance,” Aramis said quietly. “I do love women.” She quirked a faint smile. “You would be surprised at how many women around Paris do as well. Trapped in marriages with men because that’s what the world or their families expected of them, or because they felt that they needed to hide who they really are.”</p><p><i>Or all of that at the same time and more</i>, Aramis thought, with the vision of Anne’s lost and lonely eyes shimmering in her mind. <i>Holding two realms together, surrounded by attendants and courtiers, and yet still the loneliest woman in all of France.</i></p><p>“…or because they didn’t realize how they felt until they found a woman that they loved?” D’Artagnan finished, sounding small and lost.</p><p>“Or that.” A few more pieces fell into place in Aramis’s mind, and the picture they created made her sigh. “It’s Madame Bonacieux, isn’t it?” D’Artagnan nodded. “Well, if it were me, I’d just keep on courting her and have a wonderful time of it,” Aramis advised, with an echo of her usual light tone. “But you’re not me. I take it that this is the first time she’s fallen in love with a woman, too?” From the grimace on D’Artagnan’s face, Aramis would wager not only that the answer to that question was ‘yes,’ but that they hadn’t even told each other they loved each other yet. “I’m sorry, D’Artagnan. I can’t answer this one for you. All I can say is, if it’s worth it, you’ll find a way.” </p><p>She started to move on, but D’Artagnan called out, “Aramis?” The younger woman’s voice sounded sharper, more focused.</p><p>“More questions?” Aramis asked, glancing back. “Ask away. We’ve got nothing but time.”</p><p>“No! I think I’ve found something.” D’Artagnan knelt down. “Bring the torch over?”</p><p>Aramis did, kneeling swiftly down to lower that circle of light to the spot on the rough floor where D’Artagnan was pointing. </p><p>It was a crumpled piece of paper, the writing on it half smudged away by the muddy footprints that had trampled over it. Only a few words were clearly legible – among them <i>cartas escritas</i> and <i>miercoles.</i></p><p>Aramis picked it up by one ragged corner. “There hasn’t been an attack on a Wednesday yet, has there?” D’Artagnan shook her head. Aramis grinned. “Well. Now we know when the <i>next</i> one will be.”</p><p>--</p><p>The rest of the search had proven fruitless: no matter how many times Aramis and D’Artagnan had scoured that corridor, they had found nothing but dead ends. They’d knocked on every wall listening for hollow spots; they’d poked around the edges of stones looking for loose bits to pry off; and they’d come up empty-handed every time. There must be some way to get in and out that they weren’t seeing.</p><p>At least there were two good things to come out of the search: knowing the day of the next attack; and seeing the look on the Cardinal’s face when they told him that they had actually found something useful in the tunnels.</p><p>“I’m gonna commission a painting of this moment,” Porthos muttered to Aramis as they watched the Cardinal go through the struggle of trying to look congratulatory. “I’ll hang it on my wall and look at it every time I’m having a bad day.”</p><p>It was even more satisfying when the Cardinal actually had to tell them, “Well done.” Of course he didn’t let the moment last for long, though. “We know when the next attack will come, yes, but do you know anything more than that? It will come from…a blank tunnel where you failed to find the actual entrance? And it will be in search of <i>letters</i>? This palace is full of correspondence.” </p><p>“At least we know where to start,” Treville pointed out. “We can think about what Olivares’s other goals might be, and which letters he might want to steal or destroy.”</p><p>Only Aramis saw the Queen’s breath catch, and the sinking realization that followed. Everyone else turned towards her a moment later, when she said: “I think I know. There is a letter that my brother wrote to me two years ago.” </p><p>The Cardinal’s hooded gaze sharpened, like a bird of prey about to dive. “Go on.”</p><p>She did. “In it, my brother spoke of his great esteem for the Sandovals, including the specific grants of land that he planned to give them. Now that they have been removed from power, that praise might be taken as reason to doubt his judgment.” </p><p>“Thus furthering the instability that Olivares wishes to sow at the Spanish court,” the Cardinal finished. “I see. But how could Olivares be certain that you still have that letter? Your Majesty is a busy woman and receives a great deal of correspondence. You might have destroyed it.”</p><p>“Because it also spoke of…other matters. Personal matters.” The Cardinal’s eyebrows arched. Anne looked down, her gaze skittering away from his. “It was two years ago,” she repeated, with a soft, painful emphasis on the timing. </p><p>“Oh.” Realization struck the King. He reached over to cover Anne’s hand with his own, but he could only bear to meet her eyes for a brief moment as she nodded before he, too, looked down.</p><p>For the others, Anne actually had to say it: “It was just after…” Her voice trembled, and she had to stop to draw a small breath to steady herself before she continued. “The letter contained his sympathy on the loss that Louis and I had just endured.” </p><p>Two years ago: when Anne had conceived a child, and had lost that child before its birth. </p><p>Aramis made herself stay still, standing at attention with her hands folded behind her even as her arms ached to reach out to embrace Anne. She had done that last summer: she had held Anne tight for hours after she had told her about the child she had lost and still mourned. And she had wanted to do it every time she thought about the heartbroken note she had heard in Anne’s voice that night. But of course now she could not: she just had to stand still and pretend that she was thinking only of the loss to the realm.</p><p>“I see,” the Cardinal said quietly. He was never gentle, but there was a little less calculating chill in his voice than a moment before. “And Olivares, knowing you as well as he does, would have surmised that you would keep your brother’s words of condolence.” Anne nodded. “So. They must not be permitted to obtain that letter, and they will not be permitted.” The Cardinal spoke with as much cool certainty as if he were reporting an event that had already happened rather than a tenuous goal that had yet to be attained. “And we will find the way that they are getting into the palace so that we may prevent them.”</p><p>--</p><p>“I’ve got a <i>terrible</i> idea,” Porthos began. He’d called Aramis and Athos into his personal room – something that didn’t often happen, but the past few weeks had been full of all sorts of things that didn’t often happen, so this was a small oddity compared to all the rest.</p><p>“We seem to have run out of good ones,” Athos said dryly, hat tilted down to hide all but the faint ironic glimmer of his smile above his beard. There was hardly anywhere to sit in Porthos’s small sparse chamber: Porthos was sitting backwards in the only chair with his long legs stretched out, so Athos was leaning against the wall and Aramis had sprawled out at the foot of the bed. “We might as well have a terrible one,” Athos continued. “Go ahead.”</p><p>Aramis glanced back towards the closed door. “Don’t we want to wait for D’Artagnan?” </p><p>“Not necessarily.” </p><p>Athos raised his eyebrows at that, but just inclined his head and said, “Go on.”</p><p>“All right, so, we don’t know how they’re getting in and out. But <i>they</i> do. So –“ Porthos paused, grinning, then said, “We let them. Let ‘em come in, then chase ‘em out.”</p><p>Aramis was already grinning too. “And let them lead us to the secret passage. Brilliant!”</p><p>“It is, isn’t it?” Porthos grinned back. </p><p>“Not exactly,” Athos put in. “What makes you think that they won’t simply stand and fight, just as they have the other times?”</p><p>Porthos was ready for that. “Ah! Now, here’s the terrible part. What they want to do is to scare the Queen and find that letter. They scare the Queen and they don’t have the letter, so they don’t have any reason to need to get away. Well…what if we gave them something else they wanted so they’d <i>want</i> to get home to tell Olivares?”</p><p>Athos raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”</p><p>“The location of the Queen’s chambers. Or what they think is the location of the Queen’s chambers - they don’t have to be the real ones. In fact, it’s better if they’re not.” Porthos sat back and grinned again. “That letter they want – it’s personal, right? Something she’d keep in her private chambers? Once they think they know where that is, they’ll want to take that information with ‘em. So, put the Queen in any old room, let ‘em think she’s undefended, find her, and then chase ‘em out again. They’ll lead us to the entrance, and if any do manage to get out alive, they’ll be carrying back false information back to Olivares.”</p><p>“Leave the Queen undefended?” Aramis’s voice sounded sharp in her own ears. “I take back everything I said about your brilliance. Ever. For the last ten years. What if they don’t just turn around?”</p><p>Porthos held out a hand. “Easy, now. She won’t actually be undefended. They’ll just think she is. It will look like she’s got her ladies-in-waiting with her. Well, one lady-in-waiting.”</p><p>“What do you – “ And then Aramis understood. “Oh.”</p><p>Athos had already been there, long before Aramis arrived. “It’s up to you,” he said soberly, giving Aramis one of his keen, direct looks. “You know what this means.”</p><p>A lady-in-waiting, but one who could defend the Queen.</p><p>Like the gears of an ancient clock, Aramis’s mind seized up, freezing time in its tracks – and then slipped and whirred and plunged forward, racing on its track faster than before. She could do it. She could be Renée and wear a gown and <i>stand next to Anne</i> and still be the sword who guarded her, the blade who kept her safe. Could she fight in a gown? Probably. She could fight in anything if she needed to. </p><p>But if she did this…that would mean telling Treville her secret. It would mean telling Treville that she had lied to him for years. Could she be a Musketeer after this?</p><p>Perhaps her record would stand for itself? She had fought honorably in more battles than she could count, been wounded, saved her brothers’ lives a hundred times over with her well-aimed bullets and quick stitching.  Anne had faith that Aramis would keep her oath, and she <i>would</i>, but what about the unspoken oath that she had broken, to be honest with her commander?</p><p>It would be worth it. To save Anne, anything would be worth it.</p><p>What’s more, they might be able to have <i>two</i> armed ladies-in-waiting. Three, if D’Artagnan was right in her assessment of Constance Bonacieux’s skills – which Aramis was inclined to trust. But that would mean getting D’Artagnan to give up her secret as well. Aramis could not make that choice for her.</p><p>Aramis looked from one of her brothers to the other, and said slowly, “Let me think about it?”</p><p>They nodded: they both understood what this meant to her. “Take your time,” Athos said. </p><p>Porthos didn’t say anything; he just put his hand on her shoulder. </p><p>Aramis gave them one last smile, clasped both their hands, and then went straight to find D’Artagnan.</p><p>--</p><p>“You’re actually considering doing this?” D’Artagnan gasped. </p><p>“You know, I think I am.” Aramis grinned. She’d found D’Artagnan at home at the Bonacieux’s, and the only place they’d been able to speak privately was in a cramped narrow alley between the buildings. There was barely enough room for her to gesture – she had to hold her elbows tight at her sides as she flung her hands out in her fervor.  “Look, this is our chance to do something that <i>nobody else can</i>!” The thrill of that thought lit the spark anew in her dark eyes. </p><p>“But if we do, it might mean that I’ll never get a commission.” D’Artagnan ran a hand through her shaggy, rough-cut hair, turning away from Aramis as if she could avoid the pain of that thought if she just didn’t look at her. “It might mean that they take yours away!”</p><p>That exact thought had gone through Aramis’s mind a thousand times or more in the time it had taken her to find D’Artagnan and explain the plan. For the thousandth time, she pushed it away and instead thought of the best that could happen: “Or it might mean that you absolutely will get a commission. You want to prove that you can be a Musketeer? Then you can do a Musketeer’s job: protecting the Queen.”</p><p>“If it’s a good idea to have armed women directly next to the Queen right now, why wouldn’t it be a good idea to have them there at all times? What if it means that we have to be ladies-in-waiting forever after this?”</p><p>“So what if it does?” Aramis countered. </p><p>“So we won’t be <i>Musketeers</i>!” D’Artagnan couldn’t let that go. “How can you give this up?”</p><p>“If everything goes according to our plan, we won’t have to.” </p><p>“That’s easy for you to say!” D’Artagnan whirled on her. “You’ve already had your chance. You’ve been a Musketeer for years! You’ve fought in battles and found your brothers and served the realm.” Every deed she named filled Aramis with more pride; every one filled D’Artagnan’s eyes with more anguish at the thought of losing it before she had ever won it. “I haven’t!”</p><p>“Are you making your choice, then?” Aramis pressed. She could do this alone if she had to; she was sure of it. But she’d feel better if her sister were at her side.</p><p>D’Artagnan shook her head - she couldn’t meet Aramis’s eyes. “I don’t know.”</p><p>Aramis let out a slow sigh. “I understand,” she said, because she did. “I won’t make it for you. Just know that the door will still be open for a little while. And whether you decide to do it or not, please talk to Constance?” She cocked her head, aiming a glance upwards to the Bonacieux’s windows. “If she’s as good as you say, then we need her, too.”</p><p>--</p><p>Twenty minutes later, Treville sat slumped at his desk, head in his hands. “They’re going to have my commission. And my head. And yours.” He looked up, straight at Aramis. “Who else knows?”</p><p>Aramis didn’t answer.</p><p>“<i>Who knows</i>?” Treville’s voice slammed off the walls as his anger finally burst out.</p><p>Aramis swallowed. “Only the people in this room. And.” Her eyes flickered over to Athos, who gave her a barely perceptible nod. “And the Queen.”</p><p>“And the Queen,” Treville repeated, throwing his hands in the air.</p><p>“Which is why this is a good plan, sir!” It probably was not the right time for Aramis to press her luck, but she couldn’t stop. “The Queen will know that she’s being protected by a Musketeer, so she will feel safe, and – “</p><p>“Wait.” The last piece had fallen into place in Treville’s mind. “You said that everyone in this room already knows. I just found out now. The rest of you didn’t look surprised. Not even you.” He turned to fix D’Artagnan with that furious glare. “They took you into their confidence that quickly?”</p><p>“What, <i>he</i> knows?” Porthos blurted. “How?”</p><p>Athos was silent, of course, but his wary confusion was just as plain in the look that he leveled at Aramis.</p><p>Aramis held her breath. If D’Artagnan wanted to keep her secret, she still could.</p><p>“I am too,” came D’Artagnan’s voice from behind the shaggy curtain of hair. </p><p>“You are <i>what</i>?” Athos snapped.</p><p>“Oh no,” Treville groaned, head going back in his hands.</p><p>“He is too?” Porthos repeated. He was staring at Aramis, not D’Artagnan. “Do you mean – “</p><p>“<i>She</i> is, too,” Aramis confirmed.</p><p>Athos was the one who recovered first. “Captain. You have seen their performance – Aramis has served you with distinction for years, as she said herself. And D’Artagnan has not been here for not as long, but still, he – <i>she</i> – “ he corrected himself quickly – “is one of the fastest learners I have ever had the pleasure of teaching. A true natural talent.” Despite everything, D’Artagnan couldn’t help smiling. “And so,” Athos continued smoothly, “I think that whatever decisions you may take later, for now, Aramis is right: having well-trained women - <i>Musketeer-trained</i> women – will be a great asset, and will entirely fool the assassins into a false sense of security.”</p><p>“I – I’ve been training Madame Bonacieux, as well,” D’Artagnan finally dared to say.</p><p>Treville threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “The draper’s wife.”</p><p>“She’s helped us before!” D’Artagnan protested.</p><p>“So we have three women,” Athos continued, hardly missing a beat – and neatly preventing Treville’s next outburst at the same time. “Three, who can stand next to the Queen and defend her with the skill of someone trained by the Musketeers. Captain, I think this is a viable strategy.”</p><p>“Enough!” Treville rose, planting his hands on his desk and leaning over to fix the entire room with his stern gaze. “Now. Here is what is going to happen. We are going to talk to the Queen. Only us. Nobody else. We are going to tell her the plan. If she accepts, then we will do it. If she thinks it is a good idea to tell the King the full story, then we will. I’m inclined not to. As far as the King knows, there will simply be three new ladies-in-waiting with extraordinary skills. Afterwards, we will talk about what this means for you and the Musketeers.”</p><p>Aramis and D’Artagnan exchanged a look – that meant that was hope.</p><p>“And for God’s sake,” Treville added, “<i>nobody tell the Cardinal</i>.” </p><p>--</p><p>Constance couldn’t stop running her hands over the fine silk gown. “This is <i>beautiful.</i> It’s miles above anything that we’d sell.” It was, too: even though D’Artagnan didn’t have Constance’s precise eye for fabric, she could see how vividly the green silk shimmered and how it flowed in smooth ripples as Constance spun. The gown was lovely in itself, and perfect for Constance, D’Artagnan thought.  The color set her creamy skin aglow and gave an almost red tint to her chestnut hair where the curls spilled over the deep green bodice. That tight bodice pushed her bosom higher than any of her own gowns, making her figure look even more lush. </p><p>The three women had been given a suite of rooms: smaller chambers to dress in, where they could put on the gowns that had been assembled from the wardrobes of the actual ladies-in-waiting; and one larger chamber where they had all gathered now to wait for the Queen. Isolated and defensible – only one door in from the main corridor – and yet grand enough that it could plausibly be mistaken for the Queen’s private sitting room, with gilded sconces on the walls and a ceiling painted in fluffy blue and white to look like a summer sky. Under “Lady Renée’s” direction, the palace servants had moved more furniture in: a writing desk with some artfully arranged letters and papers; a little cluster of chairs near one of the tall windows where the Queen and her ladies could sit to sew; a long chaise covered in heavy rich fabric that Constance eyed admiringly. Not only would it help maintain the illusion that the room was actually one that the Queen used, but each piece would also serve a purpose: the silk-upholstered chaise could hide swords; the delicately-carved chairs and tables could easily be pushed in the way of an attacker.</p><p>As she paced out the perimeter of the room, D’Artagnan was surprised at how easily she had fallen back into her old way of moving: shorter steps to keep her feet out of the way of her skirt; smaller gestures with her hands. Her gown was simpler than Constance’s: she couldn’t match Constance’s curves, and it didn’t pretend that she could. Instead, its deep rose-colored skirt swept down in a long narrow bell like the center of a narcissus, and the seams of the bodice, piped and edged in shades of rose so dark it was almost wine-colored, subtly emphasized D’Artagnan’s slim height even more. She wore long gloves – not fashionable, but necessary to hide the roughness of her hands that would instantly give away that she was no lady-in-waiting.</p><p>Between them, Constance and Aramis had arranged D’Artagnan’s hair into an elaborate spray of curls that almost entirely concealed the shaggy cut ends, and somehow made it look much longer and thicker than it was. “My mother taught me,” was all that Aramis would say when D’Artagnan and Constance asked about her skill with curlers and hairpins. </p><p>Aramis’s own hair was too short even for that kind of artful styling; they had borrowed some false braids from one of the real ladies-in-waiting whose coloring matched Aramis’s. “It looks almost like a crown,” Constance had declared proudly as she pinned the braids around Aramis’s head.</p><p>Constance hadn’t been nearly as shocked to find out that Aramis was a woman as they’d feared. “I always thought I liked you,” she said. “Now I know why.” </p><p>Aramis’s gown was a froth of lace over deep blue silk, with crisscrossed ribbons up the bodice to give it the illusion of being bound even tighter than it was. It had been hard to find a dress with a high enough neckline to hide all of her battle scars – not very fashionable, but necessary, like the long gloves that she, like D’Artagnan, wore to cover her sword-callused hands. </p><p>She hadn’t worn a gown in years, not since long before she’d joined the Musketeers. The feeling of petticoats and skirts swirling around her feet made her want to kick at them, as if they were tall grass that she could stomp down to free her strides. She had thought that a tight-laced bodice would feel the same as the binding she usually wore around her chest – something she’d gotten used to, even if she’d never really liked it – but it pinched and gathered in all the wrong places, feeling too constricting and too loose all at the same time. Aramis had thought that it would be liberating to dress like this, returning to a self that she had left behind years ago. Instead, she kept being reminded of all the reasons she had left that self in the first place. This wasn’t the kind of woman she was.</p><p>At least the high collar let her stash a few more daggers in the bodice, in addition to the ones she’d strapped to her legs. And it let her wear the crucifix that Anne had given her: it still nestled next to her heart the way it always did, reminding her of the reason she was doing this.</p><p>“I like seeing you like this,” Constance confided to D’Artagnan, with an admiring fondness in her tone that tugged at Aramis’s heart. <i>All right,</i> Aramis thought. <i>If Anne looks at me that way, then it’s worth wearing a hundred of these uncomfortable dresses.</i> “I’ll understand if you’re more comfortable wearing your other clothes, but I think you look lovely.”</p><p>“Not half as lovely as you do,” D’Artagnan deflected, even as a flush rose up in her cheeks to match the deep pink of her gown. </p><p>Constance gave her a playful little swat. “I mean it! You should take a compliment when it’s given.”</p><p>“Thank you, then.” D’Artagnan smiled at Constance – and then remembered that Aramis was there. “Oh. Er. Sorry.”</p><p>“Oh, no, don’t let me stop you,” Aramis said lightly. She started to lean back on the chaise, but stopped short. No, she could not prop her elbows on something and kick up her boots. She could barely lean at all in this bodice, and she was wearing flimsy little slippers instead of boots. Instead, she settled her skirt around her, and pushed her smile up. “You might as well get it all over with before we have to get to work.” </p><p>The door swung open and D’Artagnan and Constance sprang apart, hastily taking their places as the Queen glided in – followed closely by the Cardinal. </p><p>Aramis stood up just long enough to curtsey along with the others – oh, that felt strange! – then sat down on the chaise again, tucking her useless slippers under the frothy hem of her gown, and bowed her head in what she hoped was a demure posture.</p><p>But she also dared to steal a single glance up at the Queen, and as their eyes caught each other’s for one tiny moment, Aramis felt the warmth of Anne’s admiration. <i>This is the way it could be,</i> she thought. <i>I could be here always.</i></p><p>“So,” the Cardinal pronounced. “You are the ladies-in-waiting that they have found to protect the Queen.” His pale gaze pierced each of them in turn. “I hope you understand the great importance of the task that you have been given, and I hope you understand the <i>consequences</i> that may come to pass if you fail.”</p><p>Aramis sat very still, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap and her neck bent under the too-heavy weight of the false braids, while her heart pounded in her ears. Surely he wouldn’t recognize shy “Lady Renée,” or tall “Lady Charlotte,” either. </p><p>“After this is over, we will consider your further service. <i>Do not fail</i>.” The Cardinal whirled and stalked out, leaving the Queen behind in his wake.</p><p>As soon as the door closed, Aramis let out a huge breath of relief. “Well! That didn’t go so badly, did it?” Like a stone across the surface of a pond, she skipped lightly over the fear that had gripped her, instead offering a bright flash of a smile. She swept up to her feet on the wave of nervous energy, pacing swiftly across the room to check the sightlines from the window – she’d checked them several times before already, but if she was going to be able to shoot from here, she needed to know the layout so well that she could do it without thinking. When she turned around again, she saw that all eyes were on her. “What?”</p><p>“You walk like a Musketeer,” said D’Artagnan. </p><p>Aramis looked down at her feet and saw how they were planted: wide enough for steady balance; light enough that she could spring into motion at any moment. The perfect stance if you were expecting an attack – not so much if you were expecting a peaceful afternoon in the queen’s salon.</p><p>“If we need to convince the assassins that we’re not soldiers,” D’Artagnan continued, “then you’re not really the one to do that.”</p><p>Aramis’s heart sank. “It really is that bad, isn’t it?” she realized.  </p><p>D’Artagnan nodded. “Maybe you should…go back to the others?” </p><p>“Are you sure? This plan was for three of us inside and two outside. If we change that, then it might not work as well.” And if she could not convincingly play the part of “Lady Renée,” then what would happen if she weren’t allowed to remain in the Musketeers?</p><p>“If they realize that you’re not actually a lady-in-waiting,” D’Artagnan countered, “it might not work at all.”</p><p>Aramis reached up to run a hand through her hair in exasperation – and stopped short when her fingers touched the heavy twists of her pinned-up braids. She sighed, looking to each of the other women in turn. “Have you got this?”</p><p>Constance grinned. “Absolutely.”</p><p>D’Artagnan nodded too, but it was Anne that Aramis was watching the most closely.</p><p>“Go,” said the Queen. A tiny spark of humor danced in her eyes, despite the severity of the situation. “You are a Musketeer as if you were born to it. Do not try to be anything else, even in my service.”</p><p>Only then Aramis gasp, “Oh, thank <i>God.</i>”</p><p>She rushed back to the dressing chamber and flung off the gown as quickly as she could, undoing laces and ties and ribbons and buttons.  Off went the false braids, flung into a corner to huddle there like some small furry animal. And then on went her own clothes: the close-fitting trousers, the familiar constriction of the binding around her chest, the lace-edged shirt and scalloped leather coat, the tall boots. On went her weapons: the reassuring weight of her pistols and daggers; her bullets and powder. On went her Musketeer pauldron, each buckle making her feel more secure as she strapped it on. And finally, on went her hat, with its bold arching plume. She retrieved her musket from where she had hidden it, and stepped back into the main room, already feeling more free.</p><p>“Much better,” Anne pronounced, and gave another fleeting smile meant just for her alone. Then, the Queen looked to the others, her expression turning more serious: it was almost time to begin. “Mademoiselle Charlotte.” It took Aramis a moment to remember that that was D’Artagnan. It took D’Artagnan a moment, too, judging by the brief double-take that Aramis saw her do. “Madame Bonacieux,” the Queen continued, nodding to Constance. “You are both doing a great service to France. We will not forget this.”</p><p>D’Artagnan dipped into a surprisingly smooth curtsey, just as she had to the Cardinal. <i>I would have bowed without even thinking, </i>Aramis thought. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” D’Artagnan murmured in harmony with Constance. </p><p>The Queen inclined her head again, then turned to walk with Aramis to the door. “A moment before you go, Aramis.” Nothing at all in her voice had changed from a moment before, but the look in the Queen’s eyes made Aramis’s breath catch.</p><p>The door closed behind them, and they both let their smiles rise to meet each other. “You did look lovely in a gown.” Anne said softly. </p><p>“Thank you,” Aramis replied, her smile lifting. “I hoped that you thought so.”</p><p>“But this is who you are, I think.” Anne’s fingers lifted in a graceful gesture to trace up and down Aramis’s form, then alighted like a bird on her hand that was clad in a leather glove now, not the delicate fabric of a few moments before.</p><p>Aramis nodded. “It is, Your Majesty.” She felt that realization settle around her as comfortably as the leather and fabric.</p><p>Anne gazed up at Aramis, eyes shining with admiration and understanding alike. “I wish I had been able to have you at my side, but I know you will be here for me no matter what. I trust in my Musketeers.”</p><p>“I’ll be right nearby.” Aramis thought quickly, envisioning the sightlines and angles in this part of the palace – where would be the best place for her to set up to shoot? “In the north gallery, overlooking the main staircase.”</p><p>The Queen nodded. “Then that is where I will think of you being.” She brushed a feather-light touch across Aramis’s hand. “Come back to me safely,” she whispered. “Please.”</p><p>“I will,” Aramis promised. And then, as she always had to, she walked away.</p><p>Athos’s eyes widened as he saw Aramis striding up dressed in her Musketeer’s uniform to where he and Porthos stood in the corridor outside the Queen’s chamber. “What – “</p><p>“Change of plans,” Aramis said briskly, slinging her musket over her shoulder. “Turns out, this is where I’m supposed to be.” It took that long for her to get close enough to them that she could drop her voice down to a whisper as she said, “As it also turns out, I make a <i>terrible</i> lady-in-waiting. Good Musketeer, though.” </p><p>Porthos clapped her on the shoulder. “Well, I could’ve told you that,” he said, grinning. </p><p>All Athos said was, “Where are you setting up?” But his pale eyes shone with a light that Aramis rarely saw, and she knew that he was just as glad as Porthos that she would be with them for this fight. </p><p>“North gallery,” Aramis replied. Athos nodded: he’d analyzed the surroundings as well, and he understood why it made sense. She grinned at them. “Good luck, brothers.”</p><p>“Good luck,” Porthos said. He glanced around – no, there was nobody else near enough to hear, not if he dropped his voice low: “Good luck, sister.” </p><p>--</p><p>Waiting was the worst part for D’Artagnan. It always was. The minutes stretched on and on while they kept watch over the Queen and waited for the assassins to arrive.</p><p>Somehow the Queen managed to sit perfectly still except for the motion of her needle through her embroidery, her expression as tranquil as if she were in the audience chamber. </p><p>D’Artagnan shook her head. “How can she do that?” she murmured under her breath to Constance. </p><p>“How can she be so calm, you mean?” Constance whispered back. “Years of training, I would imagine.”</p><p>There was a thump outside that made D’Artagnan startle back – and then the sound of a musket’s report echoing off of the walls.</p><p>And then the doors burst open and four men charged in.</p><p>Just as they had practiced, Constance stepped in front of the Queen, scooping a pistol out of the billowing folds of her skirt. D’Artagnan ducked and rolled past the assassins’ feet to the chaise where she had stashed her rapier and pulled it out of the cushions as she sprang up.</p><p>One of the assassins let out a string of Spanish curses foul enough that if the Queen weren’t already ashen-faced, she would have gone even paler. </p><p>One charged – and with perfect calm and perfect precision, Constance leveled her pistol and fired, dropping him with a single shot.</p><p>One jumped back, gasping as his friend fell at his feet.</p><p>The last one turned and ran. </p><p>“Go after him!” Constance cried. She left the Queen’s side only long enough to draw her own blade out of one of the ridiculously oversized vases. </p><p>D’Artagnan hesitated. “There are two of them!” </p><p>“The others will have heard the shot – they’ll be on their way.” Constance shooed D’Artagnan away with the sword. “Go! Hurry!”</p><p>D’Artagnan hiked up her skirts and ran.</p><p>--</p><p>The report of Aramis’s musket echoed off the cavernous marble walls of the palace’s balconies and galleries. <i>Well, there never really was any chance of us taking them by surprise,</i> she thought. <i>That’s for the ladies-in-waiting to do.</i></p><p>Her shot had found its mark: one of the assassins fell where he stood, sprawled and bleeding across the broad stairs while the others charged past him.</p><p>“Quickly!” Athos called in his voice of command. “Protect the Queen!” Porthos ran where Athos was pointing: straight at the room where they had put the Queen.</p><p>The assassins took the bait: at the top of the stairs, they turned and ran directly to where Athos had pointed.</p><p>Aramis grinned. So far, everything was going exactly according to plan.</p><p>--</p><p>“Stay back, Your Majesty!” Constance held her sword out with a mostly steady hand, trying not to think about the man she had just shot. <i>Have I killed another person? What does that make me? If I’m not a soldier, then…</i></p><p>She was acting like a soldier now, whether she really was one or not: holding a sword to defend the Queen and facing down two assassins at once. Her eyes darted around the room. <i>Two of them; one of me. If one of the others doesn’t come in time, how can I even those odds?</i></p><p>The taller of the two men laughed. “Ladies with a sword. We did not think of that.”</p><p>Constance grabbed one of the little tables – it probably cost more than her husband made in a month, if not a year! – and flung it at him. “Maybe you should have.” </p><p>Clearly the tall assassin hadn’t thought of people throwing furniture at him, either: he stumbled back as the dainty table splintered over him, and let out another torrent of cursing.</p><p>The other one sprang forward, but Constance was there to meet him. Her blade rang against his in a swift parry, and then pushed onwards in a sharp thrust forward. <i>Just like we practiced,</i> she thought – when she still had time to think. After that, she only had time to move. </p><p>Constance’s sword flew through the air, catching every one of the assassin’s blows and returning them, pushing him back away from the Queen. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the Queen trembling in the corner, and the tall assassin struggling out from under the table – not much time left. Her blade swung low, slicing into the soft unguarded spot just above his knee. He shouted in pain as his leg buckled – and that was when she thrust high, catching him in the chest.</p><p>They both gasped as he fell.</p><p>Still cursing, the tall one flung the last bits of the table away from him and gave one more glance around the room to secure it in his mind, then turned to run.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Constance gasped. “I’m going to have to – “</p><p>“Chase him, yes, I know,” the Queen finished for her. “I understand. Please do what you must, Madame Bonacieux. I think I am safe for now.”</p><p>“You’re sure?”</p><p>“As sure as I ever am,” the Queen answered, with a faint sorrow in her eyes. “Please. Go.”</p><p>--</p><p>Aramis was still grinning in her perch in the north gallery when she saw first D’Artagnan and then Constance go dashing by, skirts flying and swords in hand, chasing the assassins down towards the lower levels of the palace. She wasn’t sure which was more satisfying: the fierce look on Constance’s face, or the stunned looks on the assassins’. </p><p>No, the <i>most </i> satisfying was hearing one shout to the other in Spanish: “No, I didn’t know they would be armed! Who gives swords to ladies?”</p><p>She’d reloaded, but there had been nothing to shoot at. Anne was safe; the plan was going exactly as they’d hoped, and there were several assassins who were going to carry a newfound respect for women back to Spain along with their false information about the location of the Queen’s chamber.</p><p>“Bloody hell!” Porthos shouted from below. Aramis sprang up, musket in hand and already taking aim. “Three more!”</p><p>“Chase them back down towards the tunnels,” Athos called back.</p><p>That was when Anne screamed.</p><p>Aramis’s breath stopped. And then she ran.</p><p>--<br/>
Down into the depths of the palace the assassin ran, zigzagging through corridors and down staircases. The elegant upper levels receded into the distance behind them, marble walls and thick carpets giving way to the plain wood of servants’ quarters and brick of fireplaces and kitchens.</p><p><i>He probably thinks he’s going to tire me out,</i> D’Artagnan thought. <i>Or lose me, or make me give up. More fool him.</i> She’d kicked off her slippers after the first staircase – she ran better barefoot – and every time the assassin glanced back to see her still following, she grinned at the look of confused frustration on his face. </p><p>Now she remembered why she hated running in a skirt, though.  The rose-colored gown that had seemed so slim and elegant back in the Queen’s chamber now felt too tight, holding back her stride and bunching up with every step. There was no way she could keep this up! At the top of the last staircase before the tunnels, D’Artagnan paused, panting, and pulled out a dagger. It took several cuts to go through all of the layers of skirts and petticoats, each one costing precious seconds that she could not afford to lose, but couldn’t afford not to spend. With one final rip, she tore through the last bits of fabric and tossed them aside, sending a silent apology towards the poor lady-in-waiting whose gown this actually was. </p><p>Then she hopped onto the banister and slid down, and took off running again at the bottom, feeling every bit of the freedom in her stride as her legs stretched out under the one thin layer of petticoat remaining. </p><p>The pound of footsteps behind her sent a pulse of fear through D’Artagnan. If she turned around, then the one she was chasing might get away – but if she didn’t, she might get attacked from behind.</p><p>Wait, no, there were two sets of footsteps. One in hard boots; one softer and lighter.</p><p>“Charlotte! What do you mean, cutting up that lovely pink dress?” The voice shouting behind her was out of breath, blessedly familiar, and somehow still laughing even as they ran for their lives. “Do you know how much that fabric cost!” </p><p>Only a draper’s wife would ask a question like that at a time like this.</p><p>“Constance!” D’Artagnan shouted back. “I’ve almost got him!”</p><p>“Two French girls?” the lead assassin scoffed. “No faster than one.”</p><p>The one between Constance and D’Artagnan put on a burst of speed, shoving D’Artagnan aside to join his compatriot. D’Artagnan only stumbled for a second before Constance pulled her up again, and they both charged down the hallway together.</p><p>The corridors were growing dimmer and colder now with every step, thick with dust and lit only by the few flickering candles that the assassins had left in sconces to light their way back. The last time D’Artagnan had been down this tunnel, she’d been wearing boots, but now the chilly stone floors pounded painfully against her bare feet with every step. </p><p>“This is a dead end!” D’Artagnan shouted after the assassins. “You’re never going to escape!” Maybe she could taunt them into making a mistake, or in calling out some of their secrets.</p><p>“Ha!” the lead assassin barked. “You are wrong, French girl.” He skidded to a stop next to one of the walls that D’Artagnan and Aramis had sworn was solid, then pulled out a small metal rod and jammed it between two of the stones. The stones scraped backwards, opening another, narrower tunnel. “Tell your Queen that next time she will not be so lucky.” The two assassins dove through the opening, then slammed the stones into place behind them with a hollow crash.</p><p>D’Artagnan just stood there, breathless and grinning in the darkness, and watched them go. She’d already won: he was carrying the false information back to Spain, and she knew where the door was.</p><p>Constance didn’t stop running until she had caught up with D’Artagnan, flinging her arms around her in a fiercely tight embrace. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“Yes.” D’Artagnan hugged Constance just as close, feeling her gasping breaths start to rise and fall in unison with her. “I’m not hurt. What about you?”</p><p>Constance shook her head. “Not hurt.” She bowed her head as she said in a smaller voice, “I – I think I killed one of them, though.”</p><p>D’Artagnan winced. It was the second time that Constance had killed to help her. She didn’t know if the fact that it wasn’t the first time made it better or worse – and judging by the crumpled look on Constance’s face, she wasn’t sure if Constance knew either. “Oh, Constance,” was all that she could say, as she brought her hand up to cradle Constance’s head on her shoulder. “I should never have gotten you into this.”</p><p>“Don’t say that!” Constance said, looking swiftly up at D’Artagnan again. “I got myself into it and I am not sorry I did! I’m glad I know how to fight and I’m glad you taught me. I protected the <i>Queen</i>! And I can defend myself now – I feel <i>powerful</i>! But…I can’t choose to do that every day.” She reached up to smooth a bit of D’Artagnan’s hair behind her ear – sometime while she’d been running, “Lady Charlotte’s” elaborate curls had come unpinned. “I think it’s wonderful that you do. But that’s you. Not me.”</p><p>D’Artagnan held Constance close. “You’re brave enough to have been a Musketeer, you know. No matter what anyone says.”</p><p>Constance gave her a smile, then, a real one. “Thank you. Now - let’s go tell them that we’ve found the secret door.” </p><p>--</p><p>It couldn’t have been more than twenty or thirty paces from the north gallery to the Queen’s chamber, and Aramis was taking each one at top speed, but it felt as if it took an eternity. The whole time, Anne’s scream hung suspended in the air, frozen and slowed, taking up all of Aramis’s mind.</p><p><i>God, please let me be in time</i>, she thought – hoped – prayed.</p><p>At the door of the chamber, she paused just long enough to press her back against the wall, head whipping around to make sure that there was nobody coming who could attack her from behind. Then she burst through the doorway, pistol drawn.</p><p>There were two more assassins in the Queen’s room.</p><p>One was tossing through the decoy papers that they had placed on the writing desk; the other was holding a sword on Anne. Both turned at the sound of Aramis charging through the door.</p><p>The pistol shot burst through the room, dying away just in time to hear the heavy thump of an assassin’s body hitting the floor, followed by the clatter of his sword falling from his limp hand. In the space left by his absence, Aramis could finally see Anne clearly: pale, open-mouthed, eyes brimming with unshed tears that had been from terror a moment before, but turning to relief as Anne realized that it was Aramis who had arrived.</p><p>One down. No time to reload. </p><p>Aramis flung the pistol down and swept out her blade, stepping in front of Anne. “Stay behind me.” Aramis was astonished at how utterly calm her voice was. “No matter what, Your Majesty.”  Her off hand reached back and Anne caught hold for the briefest of seconds, so warm that Aramis could feel it through her glove. Then she let go, and Aramis sprang forward, sword slashing out to meet the assassin’s blade with a clang that echoed in Aramis’s ears almost as loudly as the pistol shot.</p><p>She flung out her arm, making herself as wide a target as possible. There would be no part of Anne that they could reach without going through her first. </p><p>The assassin lunged forward, trying to get around Aramis’s guard. This one was better than the man she’d fought on the parapets, she realized; better than any she had faced so far. His movements were quick, precise, every motion with a purpose and no motion wasted. It reminded her of the way Athos fought: that same efficiency that only came from years of skill. And Aramis had only defeated Athos with a sword a handful of times.</p><p>The assassin’s blade bit into Aramis’s arm, but it was Anne who let out a cry. Aramis didn’t have time even to feel the pain, let alone think about it. Nor on the next one, a slash to her thigh that sent her staggering backwards. She felt Anne’s hands on her back, heard Anne’s voice whispering, “Please…” </p><p>Please stop? Please help? Or, was she even talking to Aramis – was it a prayer instead?</p><p>Aramis ducked low, sweeping her blade under the assassin’s. It was what D’Artagnan had done with Athos on the practice field the other day, she remembered with a grin – and with one sharp upwards thrust, she pierced the assassin’s heart.</p><p>He was just as surprised as Athos had been. The assassin’s eyes went wide for the brief moment before they dimmed, and he slumped to the ground.</p><p>In the silence that rang out afterwards, Aramis staggered back towards the wall. </p><p>Instead of hard wood and plaster, she felt the softness of Anne’s arms, catching her to lower her gently down. “Are you all right?” the Queen asked, her voice high and anxious.</p><p>Aramis managed a smile, even as the pain from her wounds started to seep back into her. “I will be.” </p><p>“You’re hurt, though,” Anne protested, her eyes widening as she saw the blood spreading over Aramis’s clothes.</p><p>Aramis shook her head and pushed her smile a little higher, trying to chase that fear away from Anne’s eyes. “You’ve already seen how many scars I have. What’s a few more?”</p><p>Anne’s face crumpled into a sorrowful smile. “I wish you never had to have another moment’s pain for my sake.” She traced a finger down Aramis’s smooth cheek. “You saved me again.”</p><p>From outside the door, the sound of more running feet and shouting voices drew nearer. Anne tensed, but Aramis shook her head. “No, it’s all right.” She knew those voices, and they brought a truer, easier smile to her face. “It’s Athos and Porthos.” </p><p>Anne unfolded herself smoothly to her feet, and extended one small hand to Aramis to help her up. “Then we must tell them what you have done.” For one last moment, Aramis basked in the glow of Anne’s smile as she said softly, “My brave Musketeer.”</p><p>Then the door opened and the rest of the world came in.</p><p>--</p><p>The sun in the audience chamber the next morning seemed brighter somehow. Everything did, now that the threat had been lifted. </p><p>Aramis shifted her weight slightly, trying to ease the ache in her bandaged leg as she stood at attention next between Porthos and D’Artagnan as she listened to Treville and the Cardinal give their official report on the previous day’s events. </p><p>The trouble with getting injured herself was that she couldn’t sew up her own wounds, and it was hard to trust anyone else to do it. But she could also tell that the other medic was telling her the truth when he said that the sword slashes would heal well, and that she should stay off of the practice field for a few days. Soon she’d have nothing but a few new scars to add to her collection. </p><p>There had been no word from Treville about her or D’Artagnan and their future. “He said that you should rest and get your wounds tended to,” was the only message that Athos had carried back the night before, which wasn’t an answer at all. They’d all been able to take some hope from the fact that Aramis and D’Artagnan were actually here this morning: if they were going to be thrown out of the Musketeers, would they have even been permitted to set foot into the palace?</p><p>She let her eyes drift over towards Anne, trying to see how she was reacting to the report. Had the Queen already told the King what had happened – leaving out the identity of the ladies-in-waiting of course. Had she tried, and he refused to listen? Had he shut her out, the way he did so many times, even when she was desperately lonely and unhappy?</p><p>She couldn’t tell. Anne’s face was a lovely mask of neutrality, eyes downcast and neck bent inside the shell of her tall glittering collar. But if Anne ever dared to look up and over at her, Aramis’s eyes would be there to meet hers.</p><p>“…so the tunnels have been thoroughly sealed?” the King asked yet again, looking from the Cardinal to Captain Treville and back.</p><p>“So the stonemasons assure me,” the Cardinal replied. </p><p>“Doubt he’s ever talked to a stonemason in his life,” Porthos muttered. </p><p> “Your Majesties.” Captain Treville included the both the King and Queen in his patient repetition. “We are confident that there will be no more attacks of this kind. Two of the attackers fled with the misinformation that we intended to give them, and the others were slain either by the Musketeers or the Queen’s…other defenders.”</p><p>“The letter is safe.” All eyes turned towards the sound of the Queen’s soft voice. “It is somewhere that nobody will ever find it.”</p><p>“Then it seems that we can consider this problem solved,” the King declared. “If they aren’t coming back, then we don’t need to worry anymore. Well done, Musketeers! And others,” he added a moment later, echoing Treville’s words of a moment before. “Those ladies-in-waiting. Very brave, to stand by the Queen the way they did.”</p><p>Anne’s voice was still very quiet, and still the most powerful force in the room. “Yes.<br/>
They were very brave, indeed.” </p><p>“You are dismissed,” the King said blithely, as if there had never been any trouble in the palace at all.</p><p>As they turned to go, the Cardinal’s carefully measured paces carried him past the Musketeers, so slow that he very nearly paused in front of each one in turn before he drew alongside Captain Treville just outside the audience chamber. “I do have one remaining question for you, Captain Treville, one that need not trouble Their Majesties. About those very well-trained ladies-in-waiting – the Queen’s other defenders, as you put it. I do not believe that Lady Renée and Lady Charlotte have been in the Queen’s service before. Nor have I seen them since.”</p><p>Aramis didn’t dare to breathe. Nor did she dare to look anywhere but directly in front of her – least of all over towards D’Artagnan. </p><p>Treville just gave the Cardinal a bland little half-smile. “Paris is full of marvels,” he said calmly. “Of all the astonishing things that you have seen in your long and distinguished lifetime, are you really so surprised that there are women who can fight?”</p><p>The Cardinal’s voice dropped several pitches and chilled several degrees. “Do not toy with me, Treville. After my <i>long and distinguished </i> lifetime, I know when things are not as they seem, and I hardly think that you can be a match for my skills in that regard. If there has been some deception, I will discover the truth.”</p><p>Treville didn’t budge. “You can certainly try, Your Eminence. But I don’t think you’ll find anything amiss with any of the people that I have brought in to defend Their Majesties. <i>Ever.</i>” With that, he turned his back on the Cardinal and marched out of the audience chamber, not looking to see if the other Musketeers were following.</p><p>As soon as they were away from the Cardinal, Aramis let out her breath. “So that’s your answer, sir?” she asked, voice still hushed even though nobody but the other Musketeers was close enough to hear. She looked across at D’Artagnan, knowing that her own face must have the same desperate hope on it that hers did.</p><p>Treville glanced over his shoulder at her without stopping. “You heard me.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I stand by all of my <i>people</i> who show courage in defending the King and Queen.” Not men; people. </p><p>Aramis’s smile broke through, wide and brilliant with joy. She nearly staggered with the force of Porthos’s slap on her back, and her eyes shone as she saw Athos reach out to the still-stunned D’Artagnan.</p><p>Aramis knew better than to think that this was over; the Cardinal was not about to let any mystery go. But for now, she had the Captain’s protection, and she had her brothers – and soon, probably, a sister as well. The future that she could see was bright.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>- Thank you for such a fun prompt! There were lots and lots of directions I could have gone with it, but the ones that captured my imagination most were “they have to go undercover wearing dresses,” “puppy D’Artagnan,” and “Aramis is still romantic, just differently romantic.” It meant losing Aramis’s beloved beard, but, oh well :) I wanted to give you lots of D’Artagnan/Constance, too! I hope you’re OK with the level of Annamis – once I went down the “sad romantic Aramis” road, that just naturally followed. </p><p>- This is set vaguely in the middle of Season 1, somewhere after 1.4, The Good Soldier, and before 1.6, The Exiles. The only major change I made to the chronology was to speed up the relationship between Aramis and the Queen. I wish I’d been able to do more of the early parts of S1, especially on D’Artagnan’s side – I would have loved to have reframed her arrival at the garrison, as well as Constance finding out that she was a woman! But, alas, not enough time.</p><p>- There really was a historical Duke of Olivares who plotted against Anne’s brother Philip, but his personality, as well as this particular plot, are my own invention.</p><p>- Huge thanks to the Musketeers Fandom Wiki, source of a ton of details. Any remaining errors are my fault, not theirs.</p><p>- HUGE thanks to emilycare for expert and enthusiastic beta feedback!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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